


Belly Deep

by crushcandles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles
Summary: “What?” Geralt asks, draping the wet rag along the edge of the basin, shaking cold water droplets off his fingers after. “You don’t like keeping my bed warm?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 484





	Belly Deep

**Author's Note:**

> This is a hybrid headcanon and writing warm-up gone wild.

“Well well well,” a voice says as a thick, gloved hand claps down on Geralt’s shoulder. “If it isn’t the White Wolf, come sniffing around my town.”

Geralt knows that voice the way he knows getting hit with a thrown rock. He sets down his empty tankard on the table. “Bargo de Boord. Is this your town? I thought traders only traded, never owned.”

Bargo laughs, deep from the belly, and uses Geralt’s shoulder as a lever to straddle the bench next to Geralt. 

“Ah, so you remember,” he says. “I would have thought your brains would have turned to mush in your advanced age.”

“I have a few good months left in me,” Geralt replies dryly, turning to face his old acquaintance. “Now, what makes Thurn your town? Tell me before I lose my memory of you once again.”

Bargo waves his big hand at Geralt’s lightly probing tone. “Hold your sword, Wolf. I only meant that I have a shop here now. My own property. No more trading.”

“No more schemes?” Geralt clarifies.

Bargo holds his fingers a hair apart and winks at Geralt. “Only a few, I promise. Little ones. No one gets hurt.”

Geralt shakes his head. “But they get poorer, I bet.”

Bargo taps one gloved finger on his craggy nose and gives Geralt his greasiest grin before busting back into laughter. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, “I told you. I own my shop. I can’t get run out of town this time. Now,” he leans one elbow on the table and starts stroking his bushy red beard with his other hand, “what brings you to Thurn anyway? I haven’t seen a monster around since I’ve been here. Unless I’m the monster you’ve come to slay?” He wiggles his eyebrows at Geralt. 

“Not this time. I’m only passing through.” Geralt turns his head to see Bargo better, but also to hear Jaskier working his way through the dark, packed tavern, muttering, _excuse me, excuse me._

Bargo can’t hear what Geralt can so he asks, “Off to where?” just as Jaskier comes up on Geralt’s other side, sliding a new tankard of ale in from of him.

“Here,” Jaskier says to Geralt, keeping hold of his own full tankard. 

“Boy.” Bargo produces a coin from nowhere and holds it between two fingers. “I’ll take that ale.”

The look Jaskier gives Bargo is scandalized. He sits down next to Geralt and puts both elbows on the table so his tankard is safe between them. The only thing he gives Bargo is a dirty look. 

“I don’t work here,” Jaskier says pretentiously. He picks up his ale and drinks deeply to prove that point. He’s sitting so close his bicep rubs over Geralt’s as he does it. 

Bargo looks to Geralt’s tankard instead. Geralt curls his hand protectively around it. He’s been waiting for it for a quarter of an hour while Jaskier navigated the maze of tavern-goers. 

In a slick move, the coin disappears from between Bargo’s fingers and he leans in to better see Jaskier around Geralt’s bulk.

“Who are you, boy? Geralt’s a witcher, but you don’t have that look about you.”

Bargo couldn’t get his hands on Jaskier if he tried, but Jaskier still leans away a little, bringing his ale with him for safekeeping. He looks to Geralt for guidance, but all Geralt does is shrug. 

“I’m a bard,” he says warily, not giving Bargo a single ounce of his usually trusting nature. Geralt cuts his eyes to the ceiling so he doesn’t smile. Show-offs must recognize each other. 

Bargo lights up like he’s finally seeing one of his scams come to fruition. Geralt resists the urge to hit him with his his full tankard just to stop whatever nonsense is coming. 

“A _bard_ , Geralt? I know I haven’t seen you for years, but my, what a turn for the vain! Are you working for this young thing?”

Geralt snorts. He lifts his tankard so he doesn’t have to dignify that with a response.

Bargo waves the suggestion away, playing into his own game now. “Of course not. You would never. So, he doesn’t work here, and you don’t work for him...” His greasy grin resurfaces. 

“You sly dog,” he purrs. “Has the White Wolf finally found himself a pup to keep his bed warm?”

Geralt keeps drinking. The faster he’s done the faster he can get out of this conversation before he’s forced to break his truce with Bargo. But beside him, Jaskier chokes on his ale, going red in the face. Guilty.

Bargo laughs his belly laugh of his at them. It’s not really funny but he goes on and on.

*

“I can’t,” Jaskier says, pressing his fingers to his temples. “I can’t believe he said that. How do you know that, that, _scoundrel_?”

He’s naked and pacing the tiny space between the bed and the door which would be amusing if he weren’t so upset, smelling frosty like a storm despite his fresh wash.

“He’s a trader,” Geralt says to his reflection in the basin before he dips a rag into the water. “Used to travel around. He always has something to say to everyone. It’s how he amuses himself.”

He starts to scrub himself down, face, armpits and crotch. He works as quickly as he can. The water’s cold and so is the air in the room. There’s no window in such a small room, but Geralt thinks he can smell snow seeping in the cracks anyway. 

“It’s not funny to me,” Jaskier protests.

“What?” Geralt asks, draping the wet rag along the edge of the basin, shaking cold water droplets off his fingers after. “You don’t like keeping my bed warm?”

If he could die from a human’s look, Geralt would be ashes on the warped floor. He can’t though, so he’s left to endure Jaskier’s scorching disdainful expression. 

“It’s just talk,” he assures Jaskier. “We’re leaving in the morning. Forget about it.” He nods to the bed. “Get in. It’ll be a cold night with or without you in there.”

That has Jaskier setting his shoulders stubbornly, no matter the gooseflesh on his arms or his cold-tight nipples. “I don’t want to.”

Geralt takes a calming breath. He’s forgotten what it’s like to be young and thin-skinned, set on being taken seriously, but every moment spent with Jaskier is a reminder of that. 

“There’s no coin for a second room. And you know he won’t know or care if you sleep here or in another room. You’re not changing his mind at this point.”

Jaskier chews on the inside of his cheek, sour-faced. He knows Geralt is right but he won’t admit it. He shuffles his feet, rubbing his palm on his arm briskly.

Geralt lets him do it for a few seconds before he says, “Come here.”

Jaskier’s stubborn, but not stubborn enough to such a direct request. But he doesn’t look pleased about it as he comes to stand in front of Geralt. Luckily, Geralt doesn’t have to look at his face for long. He turns Jaskier around by his stiff shoulders so he’s facing the bed. 

"You can't make me get in," Jaskier reminds Geralt snippily although they both know Geralt could. It wouldn't be hard. He's hauled Jaskier around before. Off the ground when he's stumbled back from a wraith, behind a tree to watch a suspicious trail-walker, against a wall to kiss.

"No," Geralt agrees. He won't bother punishing Jaskier for being upset, and pushing him is the quickest way to the coldest bed Geralt's ever spent a night in.

So when he puts his hands on Jaskier's thighs, he doesn't lift or shove. Just holds him so when Geralt brushes his nose, cold from the water and the room's air, behind Jaskier's ear, where the skin is hot from Jaskier's embarrassment, Jaskier can't go anywhere.

"Geralt!" Jaskier gasps, twisting, trapped between Geralt's hands and his body. "You're freezing."

Geralt _mmm_ s at Jaskier, putting his mouth where his nose just was, sucking. Jaskier shivers at that. Geralt feels it through his hands and his mouth. He touches his tongue to the sucked-hot skin. He can taste the start of a bruise already. 

Cold hands skimming up Jaskier's thighs, over his startled, sucked-in belly, covering his nipples, Geralt says, "That appears to be my problem." 

Bargo wasn’t completely wrong before. Geralt's never the right temperature for humans. Almost always too cold except when he's fighting or fucking, and then he's fever-hot to humans, uncomfortable to touch. 

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Jaskier sniffs. He does lean back a little though, so the warmth of his back touches Geralt's chest, obliging even in his annoyance.

Geralt thumbs Jaskier's nipples and nudges his neck with his nose again. He gets one cold hand in Jaskier’s thick hair, guiding his head to the side so there’s room for the kiss he puts on Jaskier’s pulse.

"Warm my bed," Geralt coaxes warmly.

Jaskier blows out his breath, still acting put-upon even though Geralt can feel his blood warming through his skin. “What’s in it for me?”

Using his grip on Jaskier's hair, Geralt bends him over the bed. It's a higher bed than normal; in order to go belly-down on it, Jaskier has to rise up on the balls on his feet. He inhales loudly when the heat of his chest and belly and thighs press against the cool bedcovers, squirming. But he settles down as Geralt strokes a hand down his nape. 

Geralt half expects a fight to erupt. Sex often starts with a tussle, Jaskier playfully bouncing against barriers, obviously pleased by Geralt's strength and implacability. By hell, the first time had happened when Jaskier had yanked him into a courtyard alcove and pulled Geralt until he boxed Jaskier against the wall. 

So he keeps a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, anticipating a flip, but when Jaskier's shoulder blade lifts under his palm it's because Jaskier's bringing his hands back, wrists resting against the base of his spine like they're tied. Jaskier turns his face on the bed, mouth open, fingers wiggling. He’s smiling.

Such a gift, freely given. Geralt has no rope, nor any intention to tie Jaskier, but the image is striking all the same. He bends over Jaskier's back to take two of Jaskier's fingers into his mouth, his own gift. 

"Oh," Jaskier squeaks, tensing everywhere but his fingers, which stay gentle and straight on Geralt's tongue. The rest of his fingers curl against Geralt's face reflexively. Geralt licks the seam between Jaskier's fingers like he would the base of a cock and then gives them a few strong, nursing suckles. Jaskier tenses again at that, lifting up on his toes and then pressing his body against the bed. 

Geralt pulls off slowly, still treating Jaskier's fingers like a cock. When they're free of his mouth they stay together and pointed, wet all the way to where they join Jaskier's hand. Still Jaskier doesn't flip or fight. He stays where he is, waiting for whatever comes next.

"Good pup," Geralt praises, going to his knees close behind Jaskier. 

"Uh," Jaskier says, sounding punched-out and confused by that. He squirms again, hips rubbing on the bed. His knees are already spread, enough space there for Geralt's face to get in and lick where his thigh goes soft and secret. The muscle jumps under his tongue. 

Jaskier lifts his hips again, space for Geralt's hand to slip in and feel his cock. It's hard, heating the space between Jaskier's belly and the bed. Gently, Geralt tugs it back so it's pressed against the side of the bed, pink head pointing to the floor instead of underneath his body. 

"Geralt," Jaskier says faintly. He spreads his legs as best he can against the bed when Geralt licks his thigh again. 

"Does it hurt?" Geralt passes his fingers over the length of Jaskier's cock, from the head up to where his balls are hanging. Jaskier's flexible, but everyone has their limits. 

"Uh-uh. Are you going to-?" On his back, his hands make fists. 

"Mm-hmm." Geralt keeps licking upward, until it's no longer thigh. Then he slides his tongue over until it's on the soft slip of skin behind Jaskier's balls. When he presses his tongue there he can feel how Jaskier's body clenches up.

He stays there for a moment, licking the back of Jaskier’s balls up until his tongue can’t reach any further, holding both of Jaskier’s flexing ankles. He stays until Jaskier curls his hips back for more, moaning into the cold bedcovers. His voice climbs as Geralt’s tongue does until it cuts out when Geralt finally licks his hole.

If Geralt thought Jaskier’s back or belly or cock was hot, then he was wrong. Between his cheeks, his hole is _hot_ , even holding tight under Geralt’s tongue. He brushes the tip of his tongue over it, once, twice to get it wet and feel it flex. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier says again, not faint at all. He sounds shocked; Geralt can hear the blush in his voice. He’s had Geralt’s mouth like this, but only a few times as a side effect of getting his cock sucked or a prelude to fucking. Each time he’s been like this, staggered by the good of it. 

Geralt lets his mouth get wet, using all that saliva on Jaskier, from the back of his balls to the top of his crack. Then he gets his thumbs in there to hold Jaskier’s ass apart, to let the candles’ light and cold air touch him. 

Jaskier shivers against one or the other, hole clenching, hips pushing against the side of the bed and back into Geralt’s thumbs.

“How’s it feel?” Geralt asks, close up, breath catching on wet flesh. 

Jaskier shivers again. “Cold.” When Geralt looks, his hands aren’t on his back anywhere. They’re braced on the bed, elbows to his sides, forearms flat. Like he’s ready to push off. 

“I’ll bet,” Geralt murmurs, and blows right on him.

Gasping, Jaskier surges against the sensation, hips climbing the side of the bed. Geralt catches him, hand on the back of his knee to lift it onto the mattress, arm across the base of his back so that’s as far as he goes. 

It's easier to lick Jaskier out like this. Geralt only needs one hand to hold him open. He uses his other to tease the tip of Jaskier's cock, which is hot from rubbing on the rough bedcovers despite the cool wet spot underneath it. 

Jaskier trembles under his tongue and his fingers, making fretful semi-stifled sounds into the bed. When Geralt manages to get the tip of his tongue into Jaskier's hole, Jaskier groans, hips rolling back. If he can come just from this, Geralt hasn't seen it. He needs more.

Pulling his tongue out of Jaskier, Geralt licks his own thumb holding Jaskier's cheek open, taking it into his mouth, swiping it from one cheek over his tongue to the other so it comes out dripping. He sinks it halfway into Jaskier just on that, until the slide isn't easy. 

Above him, Jaskier whimpers. To soothe him, Geralt wets the base of his thumb and the stretch of Jaskier's hole with his tongue, working his thumb in slowly, little strokes. 

Jaskier's hot inside, hole cramping around his thumb as he works it in and out, pulling to the side so he can get his tongue back in. He laps there until Jaskier’s hole softens for the stretch of his thumb. Then he trails his tongue back down, hole to balls to cock. 

Jaskier's hands find Geralt's forearm on his back, clawing until he can get a two-handed grip on it. His fingers squeeze Geralt's arm in the same body rhythm his hole squeezes Geralt's thumb, the same as the blood-pulse of his cock under Geralt's tongue. 

Geralt lifts Jaskier's cock away from where it's rubbing on the side of the mattress and the stretch of that steals Jaskier's breath. But Geralt doesn't need it to go far, just enough that he can wrap his tongue around the head to pull it into his mouth. 

Jaskier's cry fills the small, cold room. He's up on his toes on the floor, his knee on the bed rubbing restlessly, his fingers cold and sticky now on Geralt's arm where they're twisting, desperate to hold on.

Geralt circles his thumb in Jaskier's hole before pegging it deep. He holds it there as he sucks the head of Jaskier's cock, mouth soaked from eating Jaskier out, the same tight suckling he used on Jaskier's fingers. He feels it on his thumb first, the hectic pulling pulse of Jaskier's orgasm. Then the head of his cock twitches against Geralt's tongue just before he shoots, hot come mixing with the mess of saliva already in Geralt's mouth. 

Last is the sound Jaskier makes, so stimulated he's beyond holding back. He sobs, belly-deep, like it aches.

*

This time, Bargo sits across the tavern table from Geralt instead of beside him. He’s as chipper and conniving as ever, even thought dawn’s barely gotten a hold on the day. 

“Leaving so soon?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Yes.” Geralt tilts his mug of hot milk and honey to see how much he has left. The faster he finishes the faster they can leave Thurn behind.

“Places for you both to be, I’m sure,” Bargo chirps. “Monsters to slay, songs to sing.” His eyes are sharp like glass under his eyebrows. He’s scheming again, after knowledge this time instead of coin.

Geralt cups his hands around his mug for the warmth, looking out the window to see how much snow is dusting the ground.

“Something like that,” he mutters, making sure to sound absent. If you give a man like Bargo de Boord any quarter, you’ll always end up poorer. 

Bargo leans across the table towards Geralt. He puts his elbows on the wood and holds his palms out like a scale, ready to weigh whatever he manages to get from Geralt. 

“You know,” he says, eyes sharp, teeth sparkling, “I was walking the hall last night and I’m pretty sure I heard you making that pup of yours whimper.”

“Mmm,” Geralt says mildly as he lifts his mug to his mouth. It’s possible, he supposes, although he doubts it, given all the creaking wood and moaning voices coming from most of the rooms all night. And he knows for sure it wasn’t earlier this morning, when he got Jaskier back on his belly and worked his cock into Jaskier so deep it he was too breathless to make any noise at all. 

Disappointed he didn’t provoke Geralt into a worthy reaction, Bargo lowers his hands to the table and casts his eyes around for something else to needle Geralt with.

They both look over to the fireplace where Jaskier’s huddled, nursing his own mug, eyes barely open. There’s no way Bargo will ever know for certain all the damning evidence Geralt’s left on Jaskier underneath his clothes, the bruises and bites and wetness, but the look on his face tells Geralt he feels pretty certain about it.

He tugs on his beard, watching Jaskier stretch and sigh in a silky-eyed way that means no matter what, Geralt’s not coming back to Thurn without hearing his fill of salacious new rumours about his business.

“I bet you sleep well in that warm bed of yours,” he says, cradling the weight of his cheek in his palm now so he can keep looking at Jaskier, caught in conversation with the barmaid now. When he turns to face her better, the firelight catches on the mouth-mark under his ear. 

“Sure,” Geralt replies, a curl of warmth coming to life in his stomach at the sight of that faint mark on open skin. He swallows the dregs of his breakfast, no longer interested in giving Bargo any of his attention, setting his empty mug down on the table so they can leave.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on tumblr at [crushcandles](https://crushcandles.tumblr.com/), which features the double-sided coin of writing/goofing off.


End file.
